A fine mist of red seemed to hang in the air for a moment and then a tall man stepped through it, lowering the gun that he was holding in a two-handed grip.
He looked down at the girl with desperately sad, apologetic eyes.
‘You’re safe now, Hannah,’ said Jack Morgan.
Chapter 2
Seven years later. Somewhere over the Atlantic.
My name is Dan Carter. I run the London office of Private International.
At that moment I was sitting in first class on my way to New York to meet with my boss. I’m ex-military – ex-Royal Military Police, to be specific. Late thirties. Shade over six foot, dirty blond hair, blue eyes; 185 pounds in weight. I can run the mile in under five minutes and bench-press 240. I could build up to more but I like the way my suits fit me just fine. In my line of work it’s not all about brute strength. I don’t scare easily.
But I don’t like flying.
‘Sorry, what did you say?’
‘I said would you like another drink, sir?’ asked the air hostess. She had a smile that could have lit the pitch at Wembley Stadium but I wasn’t even registering it. Like I said, I’m not a good flyer. The man I was on my way to meet was. But then, he was an ex-military pilot. Served his time in Afghanistan. Jack Morgan who owned Private worldwide. Hell – Jack Morgan was Private!
The air hostess moved away and I took another small sip of beer. I didn’t want to overdo it. Not good form, turning up drunk for an important meeting. I didn’t know if my boss was well known for giving people a second chance – somehow I doubted it – but I didn’t plan to find out.
One of the reasons he’d hired me was because I had rescued an American soldier over in Iraq. Saved his life. I don’t talk about it, but he had known the real story behind it. Suffice to say I wasn’t following standing orders – could probably have been court-martialled and dishonourably discharged.
Might have been better that way. Eventually I was invalided out and had to ride a wheelchair for a while. Jack Morgan had checked my references pretty thoroughly. Going so far as to talk with the injured young GI I had carried through a kill zone to medical help.
The fact that I had killed two other American soldiers who had shot him and were raping a suspected bomb maker’s wife didn’t faze him. He knew why, even if the people who gave me a medal for the rescue didn’t. And I sincerely hope they never did. But Jack Morgan approved, he knew the circumstances and he wanted to have a man capable of making his own decisions heading up his London operation. Getting the job done – whatever it took – and living with the consequences.
I guess I had proved that I could do that. To him, at least.
For me, though, things are never as black and white as I would have liked. Moral certitude is something that gets blown away pretty damn quickly when you take the King’s shilling and march overseas to another man’s war.
Or fly.
Like I was doing.
Chapter 3
On the steady tarmac of the JFK runway, I resisted the urge to drop to my knees and kiss the ground.
People were watching, after all, and small children were running ahead of me laughing and giggling as if they hadn’t been through seven hours of ordeal. Too young to realise the dangers, I rationalised, and headed for the airport entrance.
An hour later and I was waiting in the Blue Bar in the Algonquin, sipping on a chilled Peroni. I’d been treating the woman serving behind the bar to some of my wit but it was like bouncing pebbles off concrete. But suddenly she smiled.
Not at me. She was looking at the entrance and the man who was walking up to join me at the bar.
Jack Morgan.
He’s used to it. Let me tell you, Jack is a man to have as a friend not an enemy – but you don’t want him by your side if you’re in a bar looking to meet a nice lady for a dance.
‘Dan,’ he said, smiling, and stuck his hand out.
‘Jack,’ I said back and shook his hand. He was about an inch taller than me but built bigger. Could have played pro ball, one of his colleagues once told me and I didn’t doubt it. His uncle owned the Raiders for a start which probably would have helped.
He smiled at the woman behind the bar. ‘I’ll take my usual, please, Samantha,’ he said to her.
‘Coming right up, Mister Morgan.’
She flashed her dentistry again. That’s something the Americans are definitely world class in. Teeth.
‘I appreciate you coming out here, Dan.’
I turned back to Jack and shrugged. ‘You’re the boss.’
‘You’re the boss of London. I guess you’re wondering why I needed you for a simple babysitting job.’
‘I am a little curious,’ I admitted. ‘Couldn’t someone from the New York office have brought her over? We could have met her at the airport.’
‘The truth is,’ he replied, ‘there’s nothing simple about this case.’
Chapter 4
‘What do you know about Hannah Shapiro?’
‘Nothing at all. Your assistant said you’d fill me in, just told me to meet you here.’
‘Good. This is clearly on a need-to-know basis. Safer that way.’
Jack took the drink from the bar lady and laid his briefcase on the counter. Popping open the locks. ‘Apart from her first name, she has a completely new identity – surname, passport. Everything.’
‘Witness-protection programme?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Only not government-sanctioned?’
‘In fact it is.’
‘She’s how old?’
‘Hannah is nineteen.’
‘And I’m taking her back to England?’
‘You are.’
‘For how long?’
‘Three years, Dan.’
I looked at him quizzically and took a sip of beer. Then nodded. ‘Long enough to get a degree, I guess?’
Jack Morgan nodded, pleased. ‘You catch on fast.’
‘Where’s she going to be studying?’
‘Chancellors.’
I nodded right back at him. One of the oldest, one of the best. I looked down at the documents. Money was clearly not a problem. Private didn’t come cheap – even if it was for just a hand-holding job on a flight over the Pond.
‘This isn’t just a hand-holding exercise, Dan.’
I fought the urge to react. ‘It’s not?’
